


Flowers on the Wall

by Elphen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Guilt, Hope, M/M, Melancholy, Moving On, Post Reichenbach, Songfic, Unrequited Love, not really - Freeform, not that angsty, resignation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" He is just fine, after all, and he knows one day he will be able to move on, but not now. Not for a long time"</p>
<p>How John copes not only with the Fall and himself but everyone else and their expectations, inspired by and "set to" the lyrics of "Flowers on the Wall".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> The obligatory coping-fic, but it came into my head after reading a lot of fics and then listening to the song for the umpteenth time and it just...*fitted* so well, I thought, so I had a go at writing it.  
> The song is (c) Statler Brothers  
> No beta or britpick, mistakes are mine.

They think he doesn’t know. That he doesn’t see the looks they give him out of the corner of their eyes. Especially Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson keep casting glances at him, assessing him when they actually bother to drop by. When they don’t and Molly is the unlucky soul tasked with keeping an eye on him, she even has the nerve to tell him how _concerned_ they all are about him and that it’s too bad for him to be cooped up in this dingy little flat he’s moved into, as far from Baker Street as he could possibly be and still be in a flat in the centre of London he can afford on his pension and the money he mysteriously receives every month. Probably Mycroft.

It isn’t really Molly’s fault, though, and so he holds his tongue on all those sharp comments that is sitting poised on his tongue. He is still, after all, Doctor John H. Watson, general nice man and understanding lad. Also, he knows that she does genuinely feel bad for his sake and is trying to help as best she can. She’s even tried to set him up with a friend of hers. He’d ended up declining, citing the return of his limp and how he really isn’t dating material yet, but that he appreciated the effort. Perhaps he even put on a soft, apologetic smile for her; he can’t honestly remember, but he’d perfected that smile over the years, so perhaps automatic actions had taken over.

Not that she’d have noticed. She never looks him in the eye anymore; none of them do. He’s strangely grateful for that, though, somehow, as he doesn’t think he’d be able to cope with the guilt and apologies and _pity_ that swim in them. Oh, they never have eye contact, but from the aforementioned unsuspected glances he catches when they come around he can tell those things are there. If he’s feeling morbid, he imagines a little conscience sitting on their shoulders, prodding them to keep up this charity that is John.

It might also have something to do with the fact that though he tells them he’s fine and that they shouldn’t worry so much, he can’t always keep his voice completely cheerful. He can do steady and calm fairly easily – there are still things ingrained in him from his army days – but to imbue his voice with cheer and interest all the time so as not to arouse suspicion is sometimes too much of an effort. Mycroft, whenever he bothers showing up – which is distressingly often given how busy he must be and that he has no obligations to the doctor with the consulting detective dead – in particular is good at spotting when he’s laying it on a bit too thick, but then again, he _is_ a Holmes. The others notice too, he knows, but as time passes, they just nod and ignore it. Best to take things at face value, they seem to think; that way it doesn’t hurt anyone.

In a way he _is_ fine, though. He’s built himself quite the nice little cocoon of the flat he’s taken residence in and by now rarely leaves, to the point that getting properly dressed or even putting on shoes feels wrong. Mrs. Hudson in sheer exasperation at one point, after commenting on how frightful he and the flat looked, went so far as to call him worse of a recluse than Sherlock. Though as soon as she’d said it, she’d clamped a hand over her mouth, then she’d proceeded to apologize profusely over and over. He’d merely smiled, albeit somewhat tightly, and told her not to worry, it’s all fine. He’s got plenty to do, after all, he tells her, and doesn’t mention that what he mainly gets up to besides sleeping and staring at the wall is watching crap telly and playing with a deck of cards in any type of way he can think of. The plans he’d had for writing up the cases he’d only sketched out hasn’t been something he’s been able to face yet.

That he’s started smoking is something none of them mentions either. It’s only from time to time, when he wakes up from a particularly horrific nightmare – the ones where the terrors of Afghanistan combine with the death of his best friend are by now the worst – or when the memories, even the good ones, crowd him. He knows from a medical and psychological point of view that it’s neither calming nor helpful in any way, but that doesn’t matter. He needs it and there’s no one to really tell him off. Sherlock would probably laugh at him.

There’s good dreams as well, though he tries not to dwell on those either even though he really wants to. The ones where he’s just reliving the old cases are bad enough, as they concentrate more on the emotions he’d had and the touches they’d shared than the actual cases. Then there’re the dreams where he’s apparently living out some wishes and fantasies in connection with Sherlock so buried he hadn’t even been aware he’d had them.  Some of them are in very graphic details, too. He knows they should upset him, but he can’t muster the energy and given that he’s not likely to ever be confronted with his best friend in person again, he just rolls with the punches, so to speak. Or the erections, rather. In the end it’s just another thing to add to the reasons he keeps to himself and why his heart is slowly shriveling up and crumbling away.

He’s looking forward to the day they’ll all stop trying to get him to move on. It’s done with the best of intentions and he can see it straining on Lestrade in particular, in his very manly way of trying to help and floundering as how to actually find something appropriate to do. The last time the inspector called, he’d suggested they ought to go out a man’s night out and John had smiled, a genuine one, because at least he could hear the sincerity in Greg’s offer, miles away from the conscience-ridden offerings of the two women. They only care, but he’s not entirely sure how much any of them, John included, can handle. It really will be for the best when _they_ move on and leave him be.

 He is just _fine_ , after all, and he knows one day he will be able to move on, but not now. Not for a long time. Besides, he’s got plenty to do. Maybe he’ll even type up all the cases they’ve done and all the ones they’ll never do. The thing is never to be bored.

Right, Sherlock?

 

[ _Lyrics can be found here_ ](http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/pulpfiction/flowersonthewall.htm)

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to work the lyrics in as best I could without just lifting it word for word. Is it wrong to say I had...well, not fun, but enjoyment out of writing it.  
> Feedback is appreciated and loved and critique as well as long as it's constructive


End file.
